A BIG WALK IN THE WOODS—

It was one of those sunny, fall days when I was enjoying a severe dose of insanity that I decided to hike the combined bridle and advanced ski trail which encircles Malabar Farm for 4.5 miles.

Four and a half very hilly miles.

I should have known I was in trouble when the farm’s cartographers provided a map with north at the bottom; a violation of map publishing protocol usually avoided by even the most amateurish of that group.

Regardless, I headed up the wooded hill in a southerly, counterclockwise direction from the visitor’s center and was promptly rewarded with a sun dappled trail (above) where deer tracks were as obvious as those of horseshoes and the sounds of civilization were blessedly silenced.

I crossed a meadow high up there behind Louie’s big house and encountered two gals on horseback from Medina who stopped for a friendly chat. They were traveling the trail clockwise and I would meet them later almost exactly on the opposite side of our route.

That meant, of course, I had managed to travel at nearly the same velocity they had achieved with their mounts. They seemed proud of me; gray hair and all.

A bit after our first conversational interlude I popped into the next woods and found a dump-truck sized cairn of stones, far from any field’s edge. Curious. Could it be some farmer from ages gone by had cleared his field of these stones, and then his cultivations were overtaken by the re-growth of this forest?

Or was it, in fact, a monument to some ageless burial?

Deeper in the same woods I found a mature wild cherry tree perched on top of a huge sandstone-like rock formation. Most cherry trees with which I am familiar seem to prefer installing their roots in rich soil.

Shortly after reacquiring evidence of civilization, I crossed Bromfield Rd., and came across five horses tethered to trees. As I was making myself noisily apparent to these restless critters I noticed campers in the background.

They were a mom and pop with two teenage sons from Port Clinton enjoying a two-day, horsy campout. We shared a hearty laugh when I confessed we usually head to their area for our touristy amusements.

A ways down the trail heading through the woods east then south then east again, my reverie was destroyed by the sound of human voices. I listened intently then the innocence of their arrival was announced by a horse’s whinny—a nice young couple from Amherst; themselves enjoying some camping with their riding.

Near trailhead C far above the farm’s Sugar Shack I searched for the remnants of the Ferguson Cabin; the domicile of a colorful recluse from time gone by. I could not find the site but the last time I visited it was but a square shaped dig where the foundation once was located.

Farther east I did find the gorge of the Ferguson Falls. It must be a truly beautiful sight when water cascades the rocks and splashes the now-dry pool far below.

Heading downhill from the Sugar Maple Plantation it was a relief to my weary muscles when the trail slowly morphed into a track somewhat usable by vehicles then, finally, a gravel road of sorts as the Sugar Shack came into view.

I was relieved to be near completion of the arduous trek—totally devoid of fellow hikers—when I re-encountered civilization in the form of a guy in his trendy apparel and speeding convertible buzzing toward me on the Sugar Shack Road.

I scampered behind a nearby tree and seriously considered heading back into the woods.